Remembering while we can

Our grandma made the best macaroni and cheese. None of our Italian relatives were big fans of it, but all the grandkids loved it because, common, it was macaroni. And cheese. Every holiday and birthday was marked by macaroni and cheese.

Our grandma asked us to show her how to program a VCR so she could tape her soaps. We spent an afternoon, going over the whole thing, step by step, so she'd get every last melodramatic drop.

Grandma taught us to play Go Fish, then Crazy 8's, then Rummy, and we loved it all.

Grandma used to loved brushing our hair when it was really long. Because her birthday is on April 1st, one time we called her up and told her we'd cut it super short. Then, when we saw her next, we tucked it into our coat so she would think that it was short, and we fooled her, for April Fools!

Our grandma used to sit next to us on the piano bench while we'd practice our lesson and follow along, making sure we kept the right beat.

Our grandma baked cookies, pies, our favourite cakes.

Our grandma was a secret smoker, at least to us grandkids.

We'd sit on her balcony and talk about new things, eat our grill cheese, and gossip.

Grandma...

Our Grandma doesn't remember we don't live with our parents anymore. She doesn't remember that we've finished school.

Our Grandma doesn't remeber how careful she'd be to spend special time with each and every one of us.

Our Grandma doesn't remember that she was the one who took care of everyone else.

And now whose supposed to do it?

We know the internet isn't forever, but its a damn well longer then our memory. And maybe if we get it down here, it will last a little longer in someone elses. Or maybe if we just say it, over and over again:

Mac n'cheese, VCR, Cards, Hair, Piano, Smokes and Cake...

But it desn't mean anything when you say it like that.

Traipsing through snow from St Henri to NDG

High step, One Two, cuz the sidewalks haven't been plowed yet. Although, they are in the midst of being plowed - we narrowly avoid being sandwiched between two plows hiking around that corner where Ste. Catherine's becomes Claremont. Our boots only go up to below our knees, so any snowbank beyond that is unmanageable - that means we've got to walk in the street. A perilous feat at this hour.

The street... the street that is empty, save only for the snow plows, those drastardly snow plows that are trying to run us over. It wouldn't be nearly as stressful, walking home at 2am, if there wasn't such a need for "cleared streets". Because if no one had to be anywhere, to GET anywhere, then there'd be no point in clearing the streets on a Friday night, and we'd be able to walk home though the gorgeous snow, in prefect peace and tranquility.

But no, the motors of the cabs, and plows, and buses, and cars that INSIST on cutting up our winterscape whiz by us on every side, making us paranoid and forcing us to look over our shoulder at every moan and groan.

And if it was all empty, would we even be walking this way?

What do we know? We're blitzed.

EliEliEli